


Housekeeping

by gracediamondsfear



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV), Tom Hardy - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2016-07-18
Packaged: 2018-05-05 14:58:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5379383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracediamondsfear/pseuds/gracediamondsfear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alfie hires a housekeeper with a sketchy past and her duties entail a little more than cooking and cleaning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Eddie Harker stood in front of the desk, literally with his hat in hand, waiting for the boss to finish up whatever he was writing. Just being in a room with Alfie made him nervous, a dark pressure on his chest, worried that he’d say the wrong thing, ask the wrong question, use the wrong word. Alfie was mumbling to himself, scribbling with a short pencil on three different sheets of paper, shaking his head. He wasn’t in the best mood and Eddie considered turning heel and walking out but before he could Mr. S looked up, his head tilted down a bit to look over his glasses.

“What?” he asked.

“Mr. Solomons I’m Eddie Harker, I work in the bakery…”

“Yeah, what other fucking news you got?”

“I’m hoping you could help…or actually I could help you and you would be helping my family at the same…”

“Well for fuck’s sake what is it before you piss your pants.”

“It’s my sister Mr. Solomons, she’s right outside. We’re sort of in a bind right now as you know both of our parents recently passed unexpectedly. They didn’t have nothing to start with so there was nothing to leave for us, not even enough to pay for a burial. She's just a girl and ain't never worked before so we’ve been looking for a job…”

“Yeah? We don’t need any workers in here, you know that.”

“I know. I know that. The thing is Mr. Solomons, she’s taken to…some…unsavory means of making a pound…”

That was when Alfie sat back, when he really took notice, his eyes boring into Eddie’s as he stroked his beard, making the boy shake in his boots. But he took a deep breath and stepped closer to Alfie’s desk, speaking quietly but with great urgency.

“I heard some of your boys Mr. S, they were saying you were looking to find someone to keep house, to cook and clean and keep your place looking nice since you was always workin’. I don’t want her making money on her back any more, I can’t bear it as her brother. I’m supposed to be taking care of her. But I don’t want a handout either, not a loan or anything like that. If you could just…talk to her…see if she’s a good fit, I’d appreciate it.”

He looked to be on the verge of tears. The boy told the truth though, he was looking for a housekeeper, but he was looking for one who would be willing to…put in a bit of the overtime…and he wasn’t sure if the lad knew that in suggesting his sister’s services...although she certainly had the qualifications. He looked Eddie over, his eyes darting all over the room, his hands shaking as he twisted his hat, running it through his fingers over and over.

“Alright,” Alfie said, looking back down at his papers. “Send her in. I’ll talk to her. She know anything about me, mate?”

“Y…yes sir. She knows about…” Alfie looked up again, over his glasses, a silent warning. “…about the bakery.”

"Ah...well of course she does. OK then, let's get a look at her."

* * *

 

She was young and she was "just a girl" but she was no fool; she knew very well what was expected of her. She’d known it as soon as her brother told her that Alfie Solomons was looking for a housekeeper. He wasn’t exactly a man who threw dinner parties. 

The smell inside the bakery was comforting, pleasant – rising yeast, baking loaves and the crisp heavy scent of the barrels filled with aging rum. She sat on a hard wooden bench outside the office listening to her brother hysterically making her case.  She'd begged him to keep her whoring a secret, to tell him anything else, to mention what a good cook she was. Nothing stabbed at her heart deeper like knowing she would carry that mark for the rest of her life, that her parents, dead not even a year, their spirits knew how far she'd fallen without their guidance.

It was warm and she took off her dark wool coat, running her hand over the damp skin on the back of her neck. Eddie came out, pale as a sheet, his mouth a tight line. But he nodded at her.

“He’ll see you. Just…just do what he asks. Tell him you’ll do anything.”

“I thought that’s what I was trying to stop doing,” she said, giving her brother a crooked smile. He looked like he was about to be sick.

She stood, brushing back some hair from her face and pinched each of her cheeks to bring up a little color. As shameful as it was, she was good at closing the deal.

 

He was younger than she’d thought, particularly for the place he was in in his life, the power he had. Even with the reading glasses and hunched shoulders she could see he wasn’t much over thirty five. For a minute she simply stood there in silence in front of his desk, watching him as he wrote something down, rubbing one hand over his ragged brown beard.

“Name?” he asked, not looking up.

“Abby. Abigail. Abigail Harker,” she forced herself to smile politely, her eyes stuck on the little tufts of hair that stuck up from the back of his head, like a schoolboy without a comb. The imperfection made him a little less frightening.

“Abby Abigail Abigail Harker,” he said, dropping the spectacles and finally looking up. “That’s a long one.”

“Just Abby then,” she said, her cheeks hot with embarrassment.

“Abby.”

She was young, couldn’t even be twenty five, but he liked her curves, visible even with her modest gray dress; and her hair, done up loosely, not pinned into some untouchable sculpture. It definitely looked touchable.

“Are you too warm, love?” he asked, seeing the beads of sweat on her neck, the flush in her cheeks, the little flashes of filtered sunlight glinting on her skin.

“A little,” she said. “But it’s to be expected in a bakery.” She flashed a bright smile, pretty pearly teeth.

“Yeah,” was all he said, unable to look away from her, even though her eyes darted nervously around the room.

He got up and walked to the front of the desk crossing his arms over his chest, his chin jutted forward as he assessed her silence, her patience. He wondered how long she would let him stare her down, how long until she became nervous.

“And you know about the position?”

“My brother Edward was in the pub, down the corner of King street? He had a few drinks with a couple of your…bakers…who said you were looking for a…housekeeper.” She locked her eyes on his and drew the word out, her way of letting him know that she knew.

He nodded, having only heard half of her speech, too distracted by her mouth, her unusually low, gravelly voice, the way she chewed on her bottom lip.

“Yeah? I guess I’m lucky my bakers have such big fucking mouths. Better than an ad in the paper they are.”

He’d said it on purpose to see how she’d react, if she was one of those birds that fainted dead away at cursing. But she only blinked, smiling with one corner of her lips, a kind of insider, private smile. He hadn’t yet asked her to sit so he walked around her to the cabinet where he kept the good rum. It was also a perfect way to get a look at her ass, the slope of her hips curving out from her narrow waist. A lock of her hair, damp with sweat was curled into an S on the back of her neck, like a brand. His mind drifted.

“I don’t exactly have experience with any of the bigger houses, but I know how to keep things clean and presentable and I hear I’m an excellent cook.” He held a glass of rum out to her and she shook her head. “I…I haven’t eaten yet today. I would get sick from it.”

He was standing right in front of her, scrutinizing her. She liked the smell of him, spicy and woodsy, exotic. He lifted the glass again and wagged a finger close to her face.

“But you’re not opposed to a little nip now and again?” he asked.

“No sir, but I prefer whiskey.”

He reared back dramatically, eyes wide, shaking his head in disbelief and she found that his smile was contagious.

“Good for you love! You know what you want.” He drained his drink before going back to his desk, his papers, his pencil. Edward hadn’t instructed him but he decided to play dumb in regards to her previous employment. “Now I don’t see a ring on your hand, are you married?”

“No sir. Are you?”

His smile was hidden in his beard. “No love, not a chance.”

She smiled again but lowered her eyes as if he wasn’t supposed to see it.

“And what’s funny about that, m’dear? You think I’m not exactly marriage material then?”

Her head shot up, mortified.

“N..no sir. I only…well, I supposed you wouldn’t be married. A proper wife wouldn’t let you out of the house with your beard looking like that.”

He rubbed his chin, ran his fingers over the scar on his cheek.

“You think it needs a trim then? Then I might make someone a handsome husband?”

“Oh you’re already very handsome Mr. Solomons,” she blurted out.

He smiled the widest, truest smile she’d seen since walking in and her cheeks burned with humiliation. When he spoke again, his voice was nothing more than a whisper and he leant forward onto his forearms to say it,

“You a virgin love?”

The question was no surprise to her, nor were the job requirements, so she leaned in close as well and mimicked his answer from before,

“No sir. Not a chance.”

He nodded, not asking for any further detail, not really caring, but not wanting her to feel that he thought less of her because of it, also feeling a bit jealous at having never had a taste of his own.

“Then tell me Abby. How would you manage to make me look presentable before heading off to work?”

She smiled and approached him. This was her forte, the warm up, the sale. Moving in front of him she sat on the edge of his desk, hitching up her skirt just enough so that he could pull his chair between her legs. She said nothing as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“First I would make sure your hair looked neat and clean.”

Her hands were warm, sending tingles over his scalp as she stroked the back of his neck, the bone at the top of his spine, the untrimmed hairs that curled around each of his ears. His cock responded, straining against his trousers. Gentleness, intimacy. He wasn't quite accustomed to them, the way they made him feel sleepy and warm. She slipped off his glasses that were balancing perilously on his nose and let them drop, dangling from their chain. Her hands moved to his cheeks, two of her fingers tracing the scar that ran through his beard. He could feel her breath on his lips as she massaged the tensed hinge of his jaw.

“Then I would use a razor to keep your beard nice and neat, and sharp scissors to trim your moustache so your pretty lips weren’t hidden.”

When she moved to run her fingers over his mouth he pulled her hand away, dragging her onto his lap. She gasped at the thick shaft of muscle that pushed up between her legs, the bite of the edge of the desk cutting into her back.

“I have to wonder Abby,” he said, pulling her face to his, “how the fuck you’re going to get any fucking work done.”

Grinding his hips up against hers, he kept a firm hand on her neck while he kissed her, pushing her lips open with his own, eager to taste her. Her fingers sunk into his beard, tiny mewling sounds of pleasure vibrating over her lips, their tongues slipping and twisting together, a tempting hint of things to come.

“Get your knickers off love,” he growled, pushing her off of his lap.

Two of his men burst through the office door, stopping instantly when they saw her, her skirt pushed up to her knees.

“Fuck off lads,” Alfie said.

“Sorry Mr. Solomons,” the taller one said, both boys flushing red. “We’d never barge in on a … meeting sir, except that Mr. V is here, and he’s kicking off something awful. And he ain’t listening to little Joey.”

Alfie sighed, falling forward to rest his head on Abby’s stomach. Something in him hoped she would wrap her arms around him, offer words of comfort, kiss the top of his head…something soft. But she only stood there frozen, unsure of how to react to the interruption.

“Right. Well. Can’t have that, can we?” he said, standing and grabbing his walking stick. “Can’t have any fucking one else deal with the problems around here. No one else can find their balls, yeah?”

Before walking around the desk he stopped and gave Abby a look she couldn’t translate, his eyes locked on hers for a moment in a way that worried her, as if she was supposed to know what he was communicating. He touched the handle of the walking stick to the middle of her chest.

“You wait right here for me love. Won’t take a minute and we’ll go see the house.”

She nodded and sat in the chair across from the desk, smoothing her skirt, tucking some errant strands of hair behind her ears. He was back in less than a minute, a young, dark haired man trailing behind him.

“You stay right outside this door, yeah?” Alfie said to him. “And you make sure no one goes in.” The boy nodded. “No one talks to her, no one bothers her, no one lays a finger on her unless he wants to lose it, you understand?”

“Yes sir Mr Solomons.”

“Right. OK,” Alfie said, giving the boy’s cheek a light slap.

Before leaving again he leaned over her, his hand on her shoulder, his beard scratching her cheek.

“The job is yours Abby Abigail. You wait for me here if you think you’re up for it.”  


She smiled to herself as he walked out muttering. There she was in the den of a gangster, a killer, a man her brother had called a “fucking wild beast”.

And she’d never felt more safe.


	2. Pretty Peach

“Ah!” he said, coming back an hour later. “There’s my pretty peach. C’mon then, let’s go see the house.”

He pulled on his black wool coat and hat and held the door open for her. She kept a few steps behind him as they wove their way out of the warehouse, through the barrel rooms and past the actual bakery where fresh loaves were being pulled out and piled into baskets. Mr. Solomons stopped in front of one of the bakers and nodded at a fresh, dark crusted loaf that was quickly wrapped in a cloth and handed back to him – not a single word spoken as he tucked it under his arm. Like the Red Sea, the clicking of Alfie’s walking stick opened a path for them, employees stopping and nodding, their conversations falling silent as the two of them went by. Abby heard them whispering as to who she was. A relative? Lover? Customer? No one had the guts to speak up and ask what wasn’t any of their business and it gave Abigail a degree of pride to carry an air of mystery when she was nothing more than a woman hired to wash the boss’ clothes.

Out on the street his power was no less diminished. A short, squirrely looking man leant against a black car smoking a cigarette and quickly stood at attention when Alfie approached. He tipped his hat at Abby.

“Need a ride boss?”

“No no, we can walk. Ethan, this is my new housekeeper, Abigail. Abigail, Ethan.” The two of them smiled and nodded at each other and Alfie grunted in acceptance. “If she ever needs a ride anywhere, you take her, yeah? I don’t want her walking around here by herself, especially at night.”

“Thank you Mr. Solomons,” Abby said, but he was already ticking off down the street towards the three story row house just up the block.

 

She walked behind him as he gave her a tour of the house, modestly furnished but everything of impeccable quality and exquisite taste. Even the few pieces of art on the walls were unique and obviously priceless. She stood in the front entry way and silently took it all in as he hung up his coat and hat, calling over his shoulder as he walked up the stairs.

“Come on Abby Abigail, I’ll show you to your room.” The staircase wound upwards and he opened a door on the second floor. “There you go, love. We’ll ring your brother later and he can bring over the rest of your…your things…” he waved his hand around in the air, not wanting to waste words on such mundane topics.

She nodded at him and looked around the white room. It wasn’t a palace, but the bed was sumptuous and sturdy with thick white linens and down pillows. A single window looked out over the back garden, brown and barren in the late autumn cold. Against the opposite wall was a tall chest of drawers with an ornately framed mirror on top. Laying in a row on an embroidered white runner was a silver hairbrush, comb and hand mirror. She ran her fingers over the delicate filigree on the handles.

“Real silver that,” he said, standing right behind her, close enough to touch. “Come on,” he said, clearing his throat. “I’ll show you where I sleep.”

His room wasn’t much bigger than hers, with the same singular window but this one looked out onto the busy Camden streets. The bed was a bit bigger, the four poster frame more ornate, but otherwise it was clearly the haven of a bachelor, clothes on the floor, the bed unmade, papers and books in perilous stacks beside the bed. On the dresser top was a crystal bottle full of rum and two glasses. He poured out two drinks.

“Take your hair down love. And your coat off,” he said, not even looking at her. “Have a seat.”

She did what he asked, sitting on the rumpled sheets. Alfie handed her a drink and clinked her glass.

“Cheers,” he said, before throwing it back in one go.

She sipped at the rum, only once or twice before he took the glass from her. His lips, wet and open, hovered just a breath away from hers and for a moment he just stared, his hands braced on either side of her, pinning her in place. Power is what always got her in trouble.

“What can I do for you Mr. Solomons?”

His eye twitched just a bit, but otherwise he didn’t move. “What would you like to do for me, peach?”

She reached up to run her fingers through his beard, over the pale scar, over his lips. He growled, maybe purred, deep in his throat and leaned in to her touch, closing his eyes.

“You’d better be sure of what you’re starting here Abby, because I don’t like to stop.”

In response Abby opened her legs just a bit, putting one foot on either side of him. Then, leaning forward she took his bottom lip between hers and bit down on it, just enough to get his attention.

Alfie’s eyes flashed an he was on her in a second, pushing her back onto the rumpled sheets that still smelled like him, cigars and sweat, rum and sleep. His mouth crushed against hers, licking her lips open, and he groaned, his hands sunk deep in her hair.

Without warning he drove his knee up between her legs, grinding against her hidden clit. She cried out against his open mouth and pushed back, sure that her wetness must be seeping through. She wanted to feel him inside her, to have him flip her onto her stomach and take her like an animal. Instead he stopped. He stood away from her, between her open legs with his hands on her thighs, the length of his erection straining against his trousers. When she reached up to unbutton his pants he smacked her hand away with a subtle shake of his head. Bunching her skirt up in his fists he pushed it up over her thighs before tearing her stockings from their garters and sliding them down her legs. She watched in silence as he unlaced her leather boots, throwing them over his shoulder along with her stockings. His hands were warm and rough on her calves, up the back of her thighs. She inched forward, towards his touch. When he reached the meeting of her thighs he stood, stroking her through the wet satin of her underwear.

“I have to tell you pretty peach, once I fuck this its mine.” His eyes burned, dark and intense, but he kept stroking, slipping one fingertip under the delicate fabric. Abby sucked in her breath, letting her legs fall open further. “No one else gets to touch it,” he said. “And you keep it ready for me, yeah. Warm and wet? Whenever I need it.”

Unable to speak, she nodded, pushing against his hand, her lip trapped between her teeth. He leaned across her body to kiss her, pushing two fingers deep inside, finding her clit with his thumb. The tight, rippling muscles of her insides welcomed his hand.

“And if you find yourself craving a bit of cock, love, you know where to come and find me. Just me. No one else,” he said, his eyes locked on hers. “Not anymore.”

He worked his fingers deeper, his thumb circling her silky wet clit while she bucked her hips against him. When he felt her trembling, saw her cheeks flush, he stopped, pulling his hand away and smiling at the way she whined in protest, her body rolling, undulating over his bed. She tried to bring her legs together to find her own relief, but he knew better and held her legs open.

“What’s your hurry darling?” He said, his hands running over her skin. “I got no where to be.” He brought his wet fingers up to his mouth and sucked them clean.

“What—“ she watched him kneel in front of her. He was still fully dressed and she was helpless and utterly exposed.

Alfie laughed at the way she furrowed her brow, her cheeks red with embarrassment.

“What’s this about love? No one’s every set you off with his tongue before?”

She shook her head as he pulled off her knickers and threw them onto the bed. No, this was something she’d never known. The men she’d been with had no interest in “setting her off”, in giving her pleasure. All they’d ever wanted was a quick fuck and for Abby to be quickly on her way. She was uncomfortable having him…taste her, to look so closely at her…smell her.

“Mr. Solomon’s sir…I..” she reached down to touch his hair just as he flicked the tip of his warm tongue over the length of her wet, warm pussy. She yelped in surprise and bucked up, trying to push him away. “Please don’t.”

He stood then, pulling her arms above her head and pinning them there.

“You playing shy with me now, girl?”

His face hovered above hers, not angry, just confused and searching her expression for clues, his lips shiny with her juices. She was mortified and turned her face away, closing her eyes. He pulled her back with a hand tight on her jaw.

“Oi, look at me Abby, was I hurting you?”

She shook her head.

He kissed her, hard, his tongue earthy and acrid with her flavor. While they kissed he fucked her with his fingers again, her legs clamped tight around his arm. He brought the fingers back up to his lips and sucked them clean again, making her watch.

“Like honey,” he said. Then, leaning into her ear he added, “I’d take pussy over rum any day of the week. And you ain’t gonna keep me from drinking my fill, yeah?”

She nodded slowly. Because his tongue had felt good, so good, and she wanted so badly to come…and to please him, to earn her keep.

“You’ve been wasting time fucking boys, Abby. Boys who don’t know a thing about anything but their own cock.” He kissed her again, on her mouth, her jaw, her neck. “Get up,” he said, freeing her wrists and stepping back from the bed, slapping the side of her leg like the flank of a horse. “Let’s get all this out of the way.”

“What?” she asked, standing in front of him.

Without a word he spun her around to face away from him, his fingers quick and nimble on the row of buttons down the back of her dress. He pushed it down over her shoulders, her hips, giving her bare ass a loud smacking kiss.

She was naked but for her camisole and garter belt, pale pink satin to match the knickers he’d stripped from her. As he walked around her she covered the thick thatch of hair between her legs with her hands, but he just pulled them away and placed them at her sides. With a quick tug he snapped the two satin straps that held her camisole up and pulled it over her head. Her nipples puckered and reddened in the cold.

“Oi, Abby, look at that,” he said, running his hand over her breast. “Like two strawberry candies.”

He leaned forward and took a nipple between his teeth, flicking the tip of his tongue over it. She moaned and he moved to the other breast, sucking it deep into his mouth. She held tight to his neck and teased her, his lips moving over her stomach, dipping his tongue into her navel, kissing the little visible hills of her hip bones. He slid the garter belt down over her thighs before burying his nose between her tightly closed legs, his fingers digging hungrily into the flesh of her backside. Abby didn’t move; her breath frozen in her lungs as he kissed his way back up to her mouth.

“Beautiful,” he said, nuzzling her neck, drinking in the smell of her soap, her sweat, her arousal, so clean and feminine. “Every inch of you.”

He pinned her to the wall before kneeling in front of her and easing her legs open.

“Oi, look at this,” he whispered, licking and sucking at the skin of her thighs where the slick wet evidence of her arousal was smeared. “My little mouse likes it.”

Her cheeks blazed with heat as she listened to the wet sounds of his mouth working against her. She was self conscious, nervous, but with the touch of his tongue she began trembling again, her nerve endings alive, the heat moving to form a knot low in her belly, pulsing, building. He groaned, his tongue slipping deep between her silky wet folds, his nose pressing firm against her clit, flooding her with jolting currents of pleasure.

She’d had orgasms, rare occurrences when the men she was with positioned her just right, thrusting with the right rhythm, saying the right words. But none of them had done it on purpose. None of them had knelt before her to make love to her pussy with their mouth, growling against her like a hungry beast, driving deep inside then teasing with quick, unrelenting wet flickers, each move making her lightheaded, hungry for more, demanding she beg for it. Faster. Deeper. Harder. It was true this was all new to her, but she knew men well enough to know that they did all these things as a means to their own end. Making sure she was wet and ready and open was a necessary task (for some). Sex, her mother had told her, was created for men.

And so although she didn’t want the moment to end, wanted to melt into the floor with his mouth on her she made the sacrifice. Reaching out she grabbed tight to his hair and bucked against his eager lips, whispering and whining, feigning quick breathy cries.

“Oh! Oh Mr. Solomons! Oh my God!” She said, letting her knees buckle as she gasped, falling forward into his waiting arms. And with a final dramatic twitch she pushed him away.

He stood, his lips shiny and wet, swollen from their work, his brow was furrowed in confusion. She smiled coyly as he wiped his mouth off on the sleeve of his shirt.

“What’s this?” he asked, standing close to her. “Why’d you make me stop?”

“I…I was finished,” she said, casting her eyes downward, away from the strength of his gaze. “Now it’s your turn,” she purred, reaching for the buttons of his trousers.

“You were…finished,” he said, letting her unfasten his pants and free his cock. When she took it into her hand, stroking slowly he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look him in the eye. “You didn’t come, girl. Don’t lie to me.”

“I…I did! Thank you!”

He stared at her, nodding, mashing his lips together as if considering an important decision. He was puzzled. He’d pleasured enough women in his day to know when they were finished. He’d seen how their bodies stiffened and trembled, muscles jerking and spasming, their faces twisted into expressions almost like sadness, like pain. He’d seen the pink flush bloom across their chests, felt the way their insides rippled and gripped, milking his cock, his fingers, tongue. But here was Abby, lying to his face, faking her climax, something he was all too willing, and able, to give her.

She stepped around him, giving him a perfect view of her peach of an ass and he stroked himself as she sat on the bed, unsure of whether he was angry or intrigued by her.

“Are you going to fuck me Mr. Solomons?” she asked, spreading her legs slightly.

He was still confused, but luckily his cock took over.

“Sure I am, love, but not like that.”

He reached out and flipped her onto her belly, pulling her to the edge of the bed. She yelped in surprise as he dug his fingers into her hip and sunk into her wetness with one deep thrust. Bracing herself on her elbows she pushed back against him and he pulled out and thrust into her again, hard enough that she heard the frame of the bed squeak across the hardwood floor.

“I’m not one of your street boys, Abigail,” he said, thrusting hard and fast into her tight, creamy cunt. “I’ve been fucking since before you knew how to read, yeah?” Faster. Faster. He hammered against her ass.

She felt herself coming apart, her blood bubbling with energy and lust, her muscles clenching, her breath catching in her throat. She fisted the white sheets and pushed back against his punishing thrusts, crying out when he smacked her ass with one hand, the other slipping beneath her to find her clit.

“I know when a girl is finished,” he said, his body folded heavy over hers, his lips near her ear, stubble scratching her neck. “I know when she’s done because she can’t manage to say a fucking thing.”

With that he slowed, pressing her into the mattress, his chest hot against her back, sliding his cock all the way out before thrusting in to the hilt again. She cried out, feeling her body finally give way, her vision filled with sparks, the walls of cunt milking him, pulling him deeper, his breath hot on her neck.

“Ah fuck girl, there it is,” he growled, stiffening inside her. When he came he bit down into the soft skin of her shoulder, hard enough so that they both cried out, riding the last spasms of his climax together.

He stayed inside her as they recovered, both of them silently catching their breath. He kissed the skin between her shoulder blades and ran his fingers down the bones of her spine. Finally he slipped out of her and rolled off onto his side, pulling her against him. She was tired, her whole body warm and loose, her eyelids heavy. Alfie tickled his fingers over her belly, through the damp hair between her legs.

“Girl I want you to look at me. Look at me and listen.” She turned to face him, nervous at the dark, warning expression on his face. “Don’t lie to me again Abby,” he said, and she felt hypnotized, locked in to his stare. He slipped his fingers between her legs gently, a feather light stroke. “Not about this…not about anything.”

“Yes sir,” she said, her voice barely audible.

He nodded, satisfied with her answer, and made a small sound of approval in the back of his throat. Wrapping an arm around her back he pulled her across the bed so she could settle in, her head against his chest and they both fell asleep.


	3. Glow

When she woke up it was dark and the room was cold. Outside the window the streets of Camden were bustling under a full moon, cars and whistles, arguments and laughter. For a moment she just lay there in the blue shadows and listened, happy to be inside, to be somewhere safe, protected, not worrying about what the next trick would do to her. Mr Solomons changed all that. But when she rolled onto her side to express her gratitude she found herself alone in Alfie’s bed, a golden glow luring her into the hallway. Sitting up she saw that her dress, shoes, torn stockings, everything was gone; so she stood and wrapped the sheet around her chest, dragging it into the hallway behind her like the gown of a goddess, her hair rumpled and unpinned, rippling half way down her back. It wasn’t really the style these days, long hair, curly hair…but men told her that they liked it, they liked how old fashioned she was…in certain ways.

Her own room was down the hall near the top of the staircase and she saw the little pile of clothes thrown casually on the floor beside her bed, but she ignored it and kept walking towards the glow. Behind a half open door she heard water splashing, then a quiet groan of exhaustion; exhaustion or maybe contentment, maybe pain. Whereever it came from it registered low in her belly, giving her goosebumps. She walked up closer and pushed on the door, opening a shaft of light into a white tiled bathroom, the most luxurious she’d ever seen. In front of her was a deep, white, clawfoot bathtub with Alfie soaking in it, his head against the back edge, a bare wet arm resting along the rim. His eyes were closed, hair wet and slicked back away from his face; but what she liked looking at best was his arm, the strength in it, the tendons pulling down from his elbow, the muscle in his shoulder, a pale scar slashed through his bicep. He groaned again and moved and she stepped back into the shadowy hallway. It occurred to her only then that as intimate as they had been, she hadn’t seen him naked. And she wanted to.

Leaving him to his bath, she bundled up the dirty sheet and headed back to her room.

She slipped on her dress, leaving off her camisole and underwear, throwing them in the pile with the bed linens for washing. While she was pinning her hair up into a bun she heard a knock on her door.

“Yes Mr. Solomons?”

“I’m going back to the bakery,” he said, looking everywhere in the room but at her. “I’ll tell your brother to get your things packed up and Ethan will bring them over.”

“Yes sir,” she said, folding her hands in front of her. “Will you…be back for dinner… I mean…should I make you dinner?”

“Me? No…no. I’ll be… I’ll be late…I usually eat...”

She nearly giggled at seeing him so flustered, at a loss for words when there was no reason for it. He walked away from her door and came back a moment later, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I just want you to understand what this is, yeah?” He said, nodding his head repeatedly. “It’s a job. You’re my housekeeper. I just…I require a different kind of housekeeping, alright? A personal…touch.” She said nothing in response so he added, “I’ll pay you on Tuesdays.”

“Yes sir. Of course sir, whatever you need Mr. Solomons.”

“You give half of what I pay you to your brother, yeah? He's family. The rest you keep for yourself. “

“I will Mr. Solomons,” she said, but he’d already walked away.

 

*******

 

Eddie was waiting for him in his office when he got there.

“Where is she?” he asked Alfie, keeping his voice as calm as he could muster, kicking himself for ever dragging her down into this sewer.

Before answering Alfie took off his jacket and his hat, hung up his walking stick and made his way over to his desk, shuffling papers and books, not looking up at the boy trying to hide his impotent anger.

“Who mate?”

“Mr. Solomons she’s my sister and she’s all I’ve got anymore, I just want to make sure she’s safe.”

“Or you're feeling a bit of guilt for turning her out?” He held up a hand when Eddie opened his mouth to protest. “She’s fine lad, she’s working. That’s what you wanted inn’t? Well,” he said, licking the tip of his pencil, “I put her to work. Now do me a favor will you? Bring her things over to the house tomorrow morning. She’ll be staying with me now.”

“I…Mr. Solomons…I don’t know how…”

Alfie let his glasses fall and looked up, locking on to the boy’s gaze.

“She’s a pretty girl, Harker. And smart, and opinionated and that can get her into a lot of trouble out here, you know that. Lucky she didn’t get her teeth knocked out by some…customer,” he said carefully. “I’ll take care of her. You just take care of yourself and she’ll help pay for whatever debts your family owes. But I have to tell you son, I told her to keep a few pounds for herself, to do with what she wants. And you don’t question it. Not anymore.”

“No sir,” he said.

“Alright then fuck off,” Alfie said. “Bring her things by, I’ve got shit to do here.”

 

********

 

She spent her first hour alone walking the house, running her hands over the high quality furniture, the scrolling and scalloping carved into the smooth lacquered wood. She fiddled with the knobs on the radio that sat in the living room, a centerpiece she’d never seen before. On the wall a gold frame held a picture of a tall, willowy woman with angular features holding the hand of a young boy, no more than ten, while a baby squealed in her arms. On an end table was another, clearer photo of the smae children aged at least another five or six years - obviously Mr. Solomons and a younger brother. She laughed at seeing him clean shaven, the strength of his jaw as a teenager, clear eyes, full soft lips, hair combed down straight. She moved the picture so it was easier to see from the middle of the room. Then there were the shelves, floor to ceiling bookcases made of beautiful caramel colored wood, packed with books stacked in every which way, some with broken, tattered spines, the pages dogeared and stained. She pulled out thick volumes and flipped through them. He even had books written in Russian, the bizarre Cyrillic alphabet mesmerizing with its curves and angles, letters like picket fences. But there were also little volumes of leather bound poetry inscribed on the front page "To Alfred, with love, Mother". There were classic novels with linen covers, atlases and dictionaries, reference books of every kind.

A clock in the hallway rang out eight and she sighed. Even her brother, the lowest possible rung on the gangster ladder was out until after midnight on weeknights. She knew that she’d probably not see her boss until the morning when he'd expect tea and probably fresh scones. To pass the time she did her job, starting in his room, gathering up the laundry and stripping the bed. Unable to find replacement sheets and pillow shams she made the decision to unmake her own bed and put the sheets on his, tucking the gray satin duvet in tight over the top. In the kitchen she washed glasses and dishes, threw away some old bruised apples and organized the bottles of liquor in the cabinet beneath the sink. The house wasn’t spotless, it wasn’t the work of an upper echelon housekeeper, but it looked much better than it did when she’d arrived, and she'd only been on the job for three hours.

It was nearly ten thirty when she heard the clock again and she was exhausted. She pulled a book from the shelf and built a small fire before curling up in one of the high backed club chairs to read it. But the words were small, a curly, antiquated type face, and she didn’t have the energy to stand up and turn on the lights when the sentences all started to blur together. The fire warmed her cheeks and she let her head rest against the leather upholstery. She didn’t hear the clock chime eleven.

 

********

 

Alfie got home after one. He’d had a few drinks with some colleagues but he still couldn’t get the feel, the smell of Abby’s skin out of his head. There were a few lights on in the house and it was warm from a fire, welcoming…homey. He smiled to himself as he hung up his coat and hat, ready to find his housekeeper for a second round, but then he saw her, sound asleep. She was curled in the brown leather chair in front of the dying embers in the fireplace with an open book on her lap. She was barefoot, her hair exploding from its pins, her face like an angel. He stood in front of her and watched her sleep, his head cocked to the side like curious dog. Instead of waking her he went to the closet and pulled out a wool blanket, covering her, tucking her in like a child.

Upstairs he looked around his straightened room, sheets tucked in tight on the corners, books and papers stacked neatly…then dropped his clothes on the floor and climbed into bed, listening to the music of the late night crowds on the street. Still he couldn’t stop thinking of Abby, asleep in the chair, standing in her bedroom, bent over his mattress. He’d warned her not to confuse her position, not to get attached. He’d told her she was just a housekeeper, this was just a job.

He fell asleep repeating the same words to himself.

 


	4. Dressmaker

 

She was awake long before Mr. Solomons and got up to make breakfast, looking for tea, sugar and milk and making a note of what groceries she’d have to get. He was obviously a man who didn’t often eat at home. During the night Abby woke up once the fire had gone cold and found herself in the dark, covered with a wool blanket. She’d shuffled up to her room and slept on the empty mattress, curled up in the blanket, but not until after she’d checked on Alfie, snoring, flat on his back, his arms flung out to the sides as if crucified, a single bare leg stuck out from the white sheets. It was as if he was being revealed to her only in bits and pieces.

While the water heated for tea someone knocked on the front door. It was Ethan, carrying her small leather suitcase.

“Morning Miss Abby. Mr. Harker told me to bring your things by. You sure you ain’t got nothing else? He just gave me the one bag.”

Abby blushed with embarrassment and took it from Ethan’s hand, smiling.

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Ethan. But thank you. Why didn’t my brother come himself?”

“I told him not to,” she heard from behind her. Alfie was standing on the stairs in bare feet, his shirt untucked, braces hanging, his hair exploding in every direction. “I didn’t want him coming over here and mewling like a fucking kitten, asking if you were behaving yourself or if I’d been takin' advantage of ya…big brother nonsense to make him feel important.”

Again her cheeks burned, knowing that Ethan was still standing in the doorway.

“Don’t you worry about that Mr. Solomons, I told him to leave it all to me.”

“Alright then, don’t you have anything else to do today? I don’t pay you to stand around complimenting yourself.”

Ethan tipped his hat and made his exit while Alfie shuffled his way down the stairs and took the bag from Abby’s hand, carrying it up to her room.

“Thank you sir. I could have done it.”

“Unpack,” he said, crossing his arms.

“Oh, I’ll do it later…I still have…”

He leaned forward, his voice low. “Unpack.”

Abby nodded, opening the leather bag and unfolding the meager contents inside, the close breathing of her employer making her fingers clumsy, knowing he was staring at the back of her neck.

Her family hadn’t been exactly living in the gutters, deep in poverty, but she didn’t have too many material things ever since her parents had passed away. Money that could have gone to new dresses and shoes, hairclips and handbags went to pay bills and her parents’ debt. She had two pair of shoes and three dresses, an old white cotton nightgown with blue embroidery that her mother had hand stitched for her when she turned 18. The detail was faded and it was nearly threadbare but she loved it, the softness of the well worn and over washed fabric. She folded her underthings and set them in the top drawer of her dresser, her three pair of stockings, her camisoles and underwear. Alfie cleared his throat a few times to remind her that he was there she supposed. Once she’d hung up the three extra dresses he nodded, his brow furrowed, mashing his lips together in thought.

“Alright. All set then?” he asked. She nodded and he pulled a small folded stack of pounds out of his pocket along with a black velvet drawstring bag full of coins and set them on her bed. “That’s your first pay…with a bonus to get you started if you need anything. And there’s money in there for going to the market or what have you, tea and sugar, eggs, butter, supplies, whatever we need.”

She smiled at how he said we, as if they were a couple facing the world together, but quickly hid her reaction, remembering his warning to keep their relationship as…professional as possible.

“Thank you Mr. Solomons,” she said, lowering her eyes to stare at his shoes.

He walked away without a word, meaning to tell her she didn’t have to be so formal, to call him Alfie or Mr. S…but it just sounded so good rolling off her tongue.

*******

He sat in his office ticking his fingers on the desktop, staring off into the distance.

“Joey,” he said to the young runner sitting in the corner. “Go ask Ethan to find me a dressmaker, yeah? Best in town. She needs to come by the house and take an order for Miss Harker.”

“Sure thing Mr. Solomons.”

“Two dresses, plain dresses, black, aprons, the whole housekeeper arrangement. And a new coat. And tell her to find her a new pair of shoes. Take her out to the shops if she has to, whatever she needs.”

“Right away Alfie.”

“And tell her to go over today.”

*******

Proud of himself he went home early and found Abby in the living room. She was dusting, rearranging books, and when he walked in the door he could see in an instant that she’d been crying, her face and eyes red, cheeks wet with tears.

“Hey there Peach, what’s all this?”

“I’m sorry Mr. Solomons, its nothing.” She sniffed up her tears and wiped her eyes, faking a smile. He didn’t like the way she could switch on and off so quickly.

“You’re lying again Abby,” he said, closing the distance between them. “I warned you not to.”

She shook her head, looking up at him, afraid, her eyes wide. “I just don’t…I don’t want you to worry about me. And I don’t want you treating me like I can’t take care of myself,” she said, locking her eyes on his. “I’m an adult. I can buy my own dresses, my own shoes and garters and food. That’s why I wanted to work for you. I wanted to make my own way. I didn’t want to…I didn’t want to be a…” she shook her head and looked over his shoulder, a single tear spilling down.

“You’re not,” he said. “I’m just protecting my investment.” She snorted out a little laugh and he smiled at her, catching her gaze. “It’s getting cold out there Abby, nearly December. Your coat is shit, your dresses aren’t warm enough, your shoes are old. If you catch pneumonia you won’t be able to work or fuck.” Still she was frowning with her arms crossed, but he'd managed to make her laugh and until that moment he hadn't realized how desperately he needed to hear it. “Take the gift Abby. Your boss demands it.”

“Thank you Mr. Solomons,” she said, drawing in a deep breath and smoothing her apron. “I’ll go and get you something to eat.”

*********

After dinner and a cup of tea she excused herself to bed, leaving Alfie by the fire with a cigar and a drink. He wasn’t making any further conversation and she was tired, her day having been a whirlwind of ups and downs. She unpinned her hair, washed her face and slipped into her nightgown, taking comfort in how it felt cool against her warm skin. She sat on the edge of the bed with the silver hairbrush but before she could draw it through a single stroke she heard him push her door open, felt him staring.

He put the empty crystal glass on her dresser and took the brush from her hand, setting it on the table beside her bed. Looking down at her, so clean, dressed in white, her hair down her back, he was nearly angry at how much he wanted her, how he could remember exactly how she tasted. She reached out to unbutton his shirt and he pulled her hands away, instead reaching for the hem of her nightgown, pushing it up to her hips and spreading her legs so he could stand between her thighs, closer to her. Reaching one hand up under her hair he held firm to the back of her neck, massaging the base of her skull, the metal of his rings cold against her skin.

“I’m sorry for making you cry, Abby,” he whispered before pushing her onto her back, his lips closed over hers.

With his other hand he reached down between her legs, stroking, warming her, getting her ready, making her whimper in his ear. She held tight to his back as he unfastened his trousers, kissing her as he guided her hand to hold him, to help her soft, slim fingers stroke him to his full length. There was no foreplay, no games, he was so anxious to be inside her, to hear her come, hear her weak with ecstasy, because all he could remember was her crying - that he’d made her cry.

It was all so fast. She clasped her arms around his neck and let her legs fall open, pushing her hips up against his to let him know she was ready and he sunk into her, hard, deep, his forehead, prickled with sweat, pressed against her shoulder. She threaded her fingers through his damp hair as he thrust against her, the bed scratching across the hardwood floor, her own cries of building pleasure urging him on.

“Come for me Abby, let me hear it now, come on.” His voice was breathy but quiet, as if talking to himself.

“Wait…I…” she moved, trying to adjust her position, startled at how fiercely he’d pounced on her, but she wasn’t angry. It had been what she’d always wanted, that sort of sudden, undeniable passion, being taken, ravished. His hips hammered against her and she clung to his shoulders. “I can’t…”

“No. You can,” he said. “Come for me. Now.”

He picked her up off the bed and crushed her against the dresser, the glass rolling off and shattering on the floor. She wrapped her legs around him, licking and sucking at his neck, the throb of his pulse. He kissed her mouth again, pulling hard at her hair to get to her throat as he pushed up into her.

“Fuck girl, your cunt is like no other,” he breathed, and she felt her climax building.

Before he could ask her again, she dug her fingernails into his back, her heels hooked to his thighs and let herself go. Her insides clenched around him, pulling him deeper and she threw her head back, crying out for him to hold her, to keep her steady as her vision sparked, her head swimming and light, heat bursting through her veins.

"Don't...don't let me fall," she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Fuck yes girl…” and he thrust in one more time, pinning her against the delicately carved wood, his cock twitching and pulsing inside her, his breath hot on her neck.

She was limp, barely able to hold herself in place, clinging to his strong body like a vine, trying to catch her breath.

“Thank you,” she said. “Oh thank you.”

He pulled back and grabbed her jaw, twisting her face to look her in the eye, to see that she wasn’t sad anymore, to see that he’d fixed it, her blue eyes glazed over with pleasure. With one final kiss on her mouth he let her down, easing her over to the bed, going so far as to tuck her in, brushing her hair away from her face.

“G'night Abby. We’ll see you in the morning then,” he said.

“Good night Mr. Solomons,” she answered, turning onto her side, exhausted, but feeling much better.


	5. Black Crown

In the days that followed they fell into an easy routine. Alfie spent most of his time at the Bakery, and if it wasn’t in the business of actually making bread, it was managing crews and the captains on the street. Abby made him warm, heavy breakfasts and dinners that sat on the table covered with a napkin waiting for him to eat them cold, sometimes at midnight, long after she’d gone to sleep, sitting at the kitchen table by himself, reading. If not that, he thought of her in this quiet darkness, wondering whether he should go wake her up just to get his rocks off before going to bed. But there were things that stuck in his head that held him back. The way she’d said “wait…” the last time they were together, how she winced when he pinned her against the dresser, how he’d been startled himself at how he barked at her, demanding that she come, unwilling to find his own release until she did. She’d wanted him, he knew that, but he wondered if she wanted him…softer. And if she did, would she tell him? Tell him he was too rough with her? Too hard? And what difference would it make? He couldn’t be someone he wasn’t, undo what life had made him. That’s what he thought about when he ate cold baked chicken thighs and roasted potatoes: whether or not he fucked too hard. His business was constant and growing, swallowing up the Italians, spreading out all over London. It should have demanded every second of his available attention, and for the most part it did. There were days that he didn’t talk to Abby at all; yet every night, after checking the locks and the safe and the windows and shutting the fireplace before going up to run his bath, he would open her door and look in on her sleeping, her dark hair loose, flowing over the pillow, her cheeks pink, breathing slow and even, so beautiful and soft that he wanted to crawl in beside her and sleep on her chest, wanted to see her hold her arms out to him and tell him to come to bed. But she wasn’t his nursemaid, his security blanket. She wasn’t there to give comfort and sing lullabies. She wasn’t his wife. She was a housekeeper. A good one, too, considering her past. So every night he pulled the door shut and went to his own bed and told himself she was just a housekeeper.

But the town knew her. Quite simply, Abby Harker belonged to Alfie. She was untouchable and to be respected under threat of peril. New boys on the line or in the crews knew better than to even look at her with a raised brow unless they wanted to lose their job or maybe a thumb. And even though no one tested the boundaries or made a pass or gave her trouble she could feel all of Camden’s eyes on her when she left Solomons’ house. His name was like a suit of invisible armor and she liked it. She held her head a bit higher when walking to the market or the Bakery or when taking her money to the bank. Even when she handed half of her earnings over to her brother it felt like she had taken a step over him on the ladder of success when all she really was was a glorified maid.

“You’re doing ok then?” Eddie asked her, counting the stack of money she’d handed over with dramatic flair, making sure that he saw her new black gloves and velvet handbag.

“I’m doing very well,” she said, not walking into the flat any further than she had to. Even thought she loved her brother she was happy to be gone from the home she grew up in, from the sadness, the grief that had settled into every corner of it in the past year. She'd grown used to the feel, the smell, the warmth of Alfie's house, so much so that the flat above the sausage shop no longer felt familiar.

It had nearly broken Eddie to take on the role of parent and protector. He tried so hard to give Abby exactly the life that their parents had, but he was barely twenty-five. So Abby decided to go find work as a cook or a barmaid in a pub, anything to help keep the lights on and the water running. In fact she’d stumbled into prostitution quite by accident, with a man mistakenly propositioning her at a pub and because she’d been drowning her own sorrows she’d accepted his offer with red, drunken cheeks considering her life was a rotten ugly mess already. It was a rough way to lose her virginity, in the alley down the street from Mr. Solomons house in fact, but her customer had been pleased, and she’d served him another five times since, surprised at how much spreading her legs was worth. She wondered if he knew what she was doing now.

“He’s not hurting you?”

“Hurting me? He’s a perfect gentleman Eddie. Would you have let me go live with him if he wasn’t? You don’t have to worry about me any more. I’m a grown woman.”

“I know that. I know. Of course you are. I just…”

“Don’t…” she said, opening the door to leave. “What I have with Mr. Solomons is my business, and its turning out to be quite lucrative. I don't need you second guessing it when it was your idea in the first place.”

And yet he didn’t come back to her bed for weeks. Long enough that Abby wondered if she’d displeased him somehow. If he’d tried her out and decided she wasn’t his type, only keeping her on out of pity. And even though he’d told her that if she ever wanted him she only had to ask, she knew better than to disturb him. Her needs weren’t his priority. When he came home from the bakery he was either drunk or exhausted, drawing a hot bath in the middle of the night that he would soak in for nearly an hour, and although she was tempted to slip in and rub his shoulders or wash his hair, squeezing a sponge over his skin, she knew it wasn’t her place to ask him for comfort or pleasure, a touch – or a kiss. And oh the way he kissed, the kind of spine tingling, devastating kiss she’d dreamed of as girl – a kiss filled with power and confidence, taken not given, possessive and entrancing. She would just have to wait until he was ready for her again. He'd never promised anything more.

Finally, on a cold day in December when the snow had started falling, giving a bright clean look to the city, the house warm with golden candle and firelight, he called out to her from the bottom of the stairs. She’d been up in the bedrooms changing linens.

“Come on down then Abby, don’t make me call you again,” he said.

Before complying she took a chance and slipped off her underwear. Folding it neatly and putting it in her dresser, she smoothed the skirt of her new gray dress, pinched her cheeks to bring up some color, took a deep breath and padded down the stairs in her soft soled shoes. He stood in the living room waving his arm at her.

“Alright, alright come here then, sit down.”

She felt lightheaded, sick to her stomach. She was nervous that he was setting her up for bad news, that she was being sacked.

“Here –“ he said, holding out a small bundle wrapped in white paper, tied with a red string.

“What? What is this?”

She turned the package over and over in her hands without opening it.

“Well, we’ll never know until you fu – until you open it, will we?”

She gave him a crooked smile, her eyes glittering with anticipation. Untying the string, she tore at the paper and revealed two beautiful hair combs, covered with sparkling beads and gems set along the edge like a vine of flowers. She tilted and twisted them, making them twinkle in the light while Alfie stood close, watching her every move.

“You like them?” He asked, his arms crossed tight, daring her to reject the gift.

“I…what are these for? They’re beautiful Mr. Solomons.”

He shrugged and took them out of her hand. “They’re a…they’re an early Christmas gift.”

“You’re…Jewish Mr. Solomons,” she said, unable to keep from smiling, but glad to see her boss was smiling too.

“Yeah, and you’re not. So I saw them in a shop today and thought they’d look nice in your hair.”

Taking her shoulders he turned her away from him and tucked the combs loosely into her pinned up hair then walking around to face her he pushed a few errant strands of it back behind her ears as if he any idea of what he was doing. Instantly her cheeks flushed red, her mouth fell open feeling the touch of his fingertips on her neck after so long, realizing that she’d been craving it, even just a brush of his hand. He was close, close enough that he only whispered. She could hear his breathing.

“Actually that’s not true. The truth is, I’m worried that I frightened you Pretty Peach, when I last…when we…”

“Frightened me?”

His fingers stayed on her skin, he rubbed a lock of hair between his fingers, twisted and twirled it around his hand. It was the color of her flesh that made her his peach, the golden glow of her skin, so soft and perfect, her blush like the color of a sunset. He was nothing but a gargoyle beside her, hard as stone and covered in dust.

“I’m not some sort of romantic prince you know, I’ve been f- I’ve been right fucked in the head since I was a kid. I have a lot of hard edges, yeah? Sharp ones.”

“I like them,” she said, taking his hand between hers and running her fingers over the black five pointed crown tattooed on the back of his hand before pulling it up to her lips and kissing it. “I’d love to see more of them. All of them.” He grunted low in his throat but didn’t pull away from her touch. “I’m not some fragile flower, Mr. Solomons. I like how you fuck.”

He flinched at the sound of her voice, the way she got down in the mud with him, even with just that one word. He flinched, but he liked it. She ran her fingers up under the loose sleeve of his linen shirt and started to roll it up, exposing his forearm, rubbing the coarse hair, running her fingers along the lengths of the tendons.

“Why don’t you let me see you? All of you?”

“I don’t want to frighten you. I don’t look like you’d think, Peach.”

“How do you know what I think? What I’ve seen? You forget that I’ve…worked around Camden, Mr. Solomons. Let me see your scars, your skin….your tattoos. Let me see all of you.” Her hands moved to the hem of his shirt, up underneath it, over the taut, warm skin of his belly, to his heaving chest, rough with hair. “You can’t scare me Alfie.”

Before he could stop her she bent down and kissed his stomach pushing his shirt up, over his head.  There were more tattoos, like coded story of his past, a five pointed star on his left shoulder, a horizon with a detailed, fine lined sunset.  On his bicep a black beetle, a small spiderweb on his elbow. She ran her hands over all of them, then her lips, the tip of her tongue, his hands in her hair, on the back of her neck as she moved around him. There were other marks, slashing scars, a starburst of a gunshot, she paid homage to them all with her kisses, then stood and took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth, pressing against his naked chest, absorbing the heat of his skin. His hand was firm on the back of her neck and he kissed her back hard, just how she'd wanted it, his tongue slipping hungrily in over hers.  She broke the kiss and pulled back to smile.

"I thought you were going to tell me to leave," she said as he walked her backwards until she fell back onto the sofa. "I thought you'd grown tired of me."

His brow furrowed deep, he grunted in disapproval, pushing her dress up to find her naked beneath, ready for him, already wet, just from a kiss.

"Ah Abby," he said, laying her back and spreading her thighs. "You'll end up killing me before I'm tired of you."

 

 

 


	6. Flip Of The Coin

He settled between her legs, still kissing her, his fingers undoing the buttons of her dress while she twisted and mewled beneath him, her fingers sunk deep into his hair, reacquainting herself with his smell, the texture of his skin, holding his face, his mouth tight to hers, his tongue slippery and warm, a kiss she'd remember all her life.

“I’ve missed…” she thought carefully of how to say what she felt, “I’ve missed this. It’s been weeks.”

Again he growled at her and she smiled, pushing her hips up against him as he ran his fingertips beneath the fabric of her dress and over the milky skin of her breasts, her nipples tightening under his touch.

“You think I haven’t been counting the days, girl?” He asked, his hand wandering down between her thighs, stroking her wetness, finding her clit easily and circling it with his fingertip before sinking inside.

“Oh!” her eyes opened wide, her lips fell away from his and she groaned, grinding against his hand.

But he was distracting her from what she’d planned, what she’d wanted to do for him. Liked she said, she wanted to see all of him, to touch and explore all of him, to give him his release _before_ hers, to see him come, not just as an afterthought of her own pleasure. She wanted to serve him.

“Please,” she said, reaching down to move his hand, “let me.”

She pulled his wet fingers to her mouth and sucked them clean before she sat up and pushed him back on his heels. She was still drawn to his marked chest, the angles of his muscles, the dark weathered surface of his skin, thick tendons in his neck. With trembling hands she reached out to the waistband of his trousers and unfastened them without a word of protest from him. Slowly she slid to the floor in front of him and pulled his trousers down over his thick thighs, freeing his cock that stood rigid and tall. Going up on her knees she licked her lips and grasped the hot shaft of flesh. She flicked the very tip of her narrow pink tongue over the head of his prick before blowing a cool stream of air across it. He purred, a low rumble in his throat as he shifted his position, moving closer to her waiting mouth. But she only pulled back, stroking him slowly with one hand, wetting her fingers with her own juices before sliding them over his skin. Alfie still said nothing, his eyes burning as he stared at her, his own lips pursed tight, although inside he was close to screaming, grasping her hair and forcing his cock down her throat until she couldn’t breathe. As if reading his mind she smiled at him, that amazing one sided smile, so cocky and coy at the same time

“What’s the matter Mr. Solomons?” She asked, stroking him slowly, “Has no one ever set you off with their mouth before?”

He grabbed a fistful of her hair and leaned down to kiss her, keeping his hand tangled in her hair once he’d broken it.

“Enough teasing, suck it if you’re going to or I’ll turn you over my knee.”

“Do you promise, Mr. Solomons?”

Swiping her tongue over the hot, swollen head of his prick, she closed her lips around it and slid down the shaft, continuing to stroke him, laving him with the flat of her tongue until she’d taken all of him into her throat. He bucked and growled,

“Fuck. Your mouth Peach, I can’t…”

She drew out and took him down again, sucking hard, the soft tenderness of her fingertips roaming down between his thighs to cup him. He felt the heat building deep in his balls, the climax roaring to the surface and he wanted to pull out from her mouth but she held fast, working him to a frenzy with both her lips and her hands, her own moaning sounds vibrating against him.

“Fucking hell, Abby!” He roared as he came, exploding deep in her mouth, pulsing and twitching as she milked him with her hand, letting him thrust against the back of her throat, her eyes tilted up to watch him, his chest heaving, face contorted in climax.

She backed away and wiped her pink, swollen mouth on his naked thigh before looking up to smile at him. He pulled her up by her shoulders onto his lap, her legs spread across him as he kneaded her breasts, taking her taut nipples between his teeth, biting hard enough to make her cry out, hard enough to mark her.

“You’re a proper whore, aren’t ya, sweetheart?”

As soon as he said it they both went still, his hands on her hips, her dripping, aching pussy pressed against his recovering cock, their mouths only a breath apart. For a moment he felt her muscles tense beneath his hands.

“I…Abby…that’s not what I meant…”

She shook her head and took his face in her hands, running her fingers through his beard, her forehead pressed against his.

“I know what you meant Mr. S. ” she said, covering his cheeks with small, pecking kisses. “Why are you so afraid of me? There you go, still treating me like I’m made of glass. Call me whatever you want to call me, do whatever you want to do, fuck me as hard as you can, because I can take it. I _am_ a proper whore. But only for you sir. I promise you that.”

Her hips started to move again as she found his mouth. His cock twitched, jumped in its recovery, swelling between her legs. She rubbed against it, warming him with her wetness. He kissed her harder, pushing her onto her back on the floor in front of the fireplace. The room was getting darker and colder as the sun went down. In the shadows he took off her dress and the two of them were completely naked, naked together, his chest pressed against hers, hot breath over her skin, the fading light glinting off his rings, the chain around his wrist. She wrapped her legs around his hips and he pushed into her, his eyes locked on hers, focused determination. At first his thrusts were slow, groaning as every inch sunk in, her fingernails dragging up his spine, feeling him grow harder, bigger inside her.

“You are my whore,” he said, his rhythm becoming quicker, fierce, his hips snapping hard against hers. “ _My_ cunt, _my_ sweet, pretty Peach.” He pulled her up so that she sat on him, her limbs still twisted around him, her hips rolling as he growled in her ear, a bead of sweat rolling down the back of her neck. “And I’ll fuck ya until you can’t walk if I want to and you won’t say a word otherwise, will you?”

She whined and bucked, shaking her head, his hands pulling at her hair, his lips on her throat, sucking at her pulse point while her insides gripped him, milking him, pulling him in deeper. His mouth moved to her breast, his soft lips and scratchy beard electric against her nipple. A sheen of sweat covered his torso, his skin hot and slick when she clutched tight, her climax blooming low in her belly then coming in hard rippling waves. She screamed for him, breathless with an edge of agony, trembling and twitching until she could no longer hang on. He held her up as he took his final thrusts before coming inside her holding tight to the back of her neck, every ounce of energy draining away with the last pulses of her orgasm until she was limp as a ragdoll.

“Oh God sir. Oh thank you. Thank you,” she said, curling herself into his chest, liking the way the scratchy hair felt against her cheek, the smell of his sweat. She licked it, tasting his skin, taking possession of it like a lioness at the front of the pride. Now that she’d seen his skin, the art on his body, she never wanted to let it go. It was hers.

He leaned against the sofa with one arm around her back and in the darkness he ran his fingers through her hair, loosening the combs he’d given her, pulling out the pins she’d put in it that morning. She didn’t dare move or speak, not wanting the moment to end, not wanting to hear him tell her that he needed to go back to the bakery, that he was done with her for now. A little glowing sun of knowledge started growing in her chest, the knowledge that she didn’t want to be Mr. Solomons housekeeper. Not _just_ his housekeeper anyway.

She could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he was falling asleep. His hand stopped moving, still nestled into her hair, his heartbeat slowed beneath her ear. Above the fireplace the clock struck six and outside the streetlights were being lit. She should have been working at dinner, doing his laundry, but instead she adjusted her position to watch him sleeping, his full,rosy lips parted, tiny rumbling sounds on each exhale. She found a fine, pale scar above his eyebrow and touched it with her pinky then kissed it, smiling at how he quickly furrowed his brow and turned his head. Even now, in the silent dark, his eyes closed, she felt safe just being near him, like being hidden under the heavy black wing of a powerful raven. Knowing that just in the way he had said that she was _his_ that she never had to worry, not as long as she was under his roof, under his protection. But she didn't just want the protection. 

She wanted the danger on the other side of the coin.

Alfie stirred after a few minutes and found her asleep, her long legs stretched out on the floor, her head on his knee, one arm resting on her hip, like he'd seen Roman goddesses doing in old paintings. Tightly grasped in her other hand were the combs he'd given her. Fucking her tonight had taken a weight off his shoulders.  She'd told him what she wanted...all that she expected, a housekeeper and a whore, nothing more, and never anything less. He found himself proud that she could take everything he gave her, that she willingly swallowed his seed, let him pull her hair, mark her skin, use her in ways a proper lady would never allow.  Of course he'd never wanted a proper lady, but there was something about her bright smiles and wide eyes, the way she laughed at his dirtiest jokes without blinking an eye, her manners and good posture that made him feel like he'd snagged a prize he wasn't meant to have, someone out of his league who just hadn't realized it yet.

 

 

 


	7. Late Night

As the days grew shorter and colder, Abby spent more of her days at the bakery. Alfie would leave on his own in the morning and she would clean the house, make the beds, do laundry and ironing; then in the afternoon she would bring him something for tea. Her deliveries inevitably became an excuse for him to lock the door of his office and bend her over his desk, muffling the sound of her cries with a hand tight over her mouth, her eager mouth sucking on his fingers as he took her from behind, whispering the worst kind of filth into her ear, knowing it would send her over the edge. Then, flushed and disheveled, Abby would straighten her skirts and walk out onto the floor and help the bakery crew with whatever was needed.

She was no fool. Nor was she deaf. So when she heard the whispers behind her back of being the boss’ whore she simply ignored them, greeting everyone with a friendly smile and an offer of help, knowing deep in her heart that if their words ever got back to Mr. S they’d be walking home with their teeth in their pockets. So she held the knowledge of who talked about her until one day she might need it. Ethan drove her home at night, sometimes sitting in the backseat with Alfie but most often by herself. And even on the nights when he didn’t come to her, didn’t climb into her bed and slide a rough, warm hand beneath her gown, she would stay awake until she heard him come home safely, the shuffle and click of his footsteps and walking stick, the groan of exhaustion he made walking up the stairs. When she heard his hand on her doorknob she closed her eyes, her heart beating a wild rhythm, wondering if he’d come all the way in.

This was their routine.

 

It was a night in February when she lay awake long after midnight. Every noise made her jump, the darkness enveloping as the street lights went out and he still hadn’t come home. It had been an uneventful day at the bakery and as far as she knew he had no plans. These were the nights when she worried, not just about the unsavory citizens of Camden, or the crooked boys that worked beneath him, but about his enemies, about the Italians, the Irish, the Russians. In the dark her mind raced, imagining the worst. When the clock struck two she got out of bed, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders and going to the top of the staircase where she sat and waited, staring at the front door.

The pounding startled her.

“Abby! Abby! Hurry!”

She stumbled down the stairs at the frantic tone of Ethan’s voice and threw open the front door. There stood the driver, holding up Alfie, who leant against him, one arm thrown over his shoulder. His face was bloody and battered, one eye swollen shut. His shirt was dirty, torn and stained with blood, half of a muddy bootprint pressed into his side.

“Mr S! Bring him inside, lay him down!”

Together they walked him over to the sofa and flopped him onto his back. He groaned in agony, his hand reaching out towards her.

“P—peach. Its ok,” he whispered. “Calm yourself, it’s ok,” his words muffled by his split and swollen lip. 

Abby grabbed his hand and ran her hand over the side of his face, her fingers coming back covered in dark, dried blood. “I’m here. You’ll be ok. I promise you’ll be ok. I’m going to take care of you.”

Ethan rushed in from the kitchen carrying rags and a bowl full of water. She dabbed at the open wounds on his face, cleaning away the mud and dried blood to reveal new blooming bruises and a cut at his hairline that dampened his hair with blood. The look of him broken and weak was terrifying; the way his open eye moved frantically, watching her work, trying to blink, the hissing sounds of pain when she touched each bruise. Under her breath she kept whispering _it’s ok, it’s ok._

“What happened?” she asked Ethan, tearing at the bloody shirt and pushing it down his arms.

“Outside the pub, he was meeting with some of the boys inside and then some son of a bitch broke a bottle over his head and in a flash there were four guys beating the ever living hell out of Alfie and Little Jimmy. Jimmy’s friends took him back to their place but Alfie wanted to come home,” Ethan said. Then, after a pause he added, “he wanted you.” 

She blushed and turned back to Mr. Solomons, wiping a fresh wet rag over his chest. His side was swollen, angry red and purple and she could tell his ribs were broken. She needed more than just soap and water to fix him, but she wasn’t a doctor, not even a nurse…or a mother…she was just a scared hooker who’d never been responsible for anyone.

“We need to take him to the hospital, Ethan. His ribs…this cut, I don’t know if I can….I can’t…”

Alfie’s hand grabbed her wrist with incredible strength, pulling her down. She stumbled to kneel beside him.

“No hospital. You hear? Rum and bandages, that's all,” he said. Then his eye flicked up to Ethan. “You can go. Get home to Ruth. She’ll be worried.” 

Abby walked Ethan to the door, still holding the remnants of Alfie’s bloody shirt.

“He just needs someone to keep an eye on him, Abby. Wrap up his ribs and bandage the cuts and he’ll be fine,” he said. “If you need a doctor in the morning, give me a call and I’ll be here.”

She pulled a sheet off her bed and tore it into strips. In the bathroom cabinet she found alcohol to clean the wound on his head that was shallow, but still had bits of mud and glass stuck to it. She brought ice for his eye and once he was cleaned and his bruised chest wrapped she poured him a hefty glass of dark rum and started a fire. It hit her only then how exhausted she was. The sun was beginning to light the far edge of the sky, bringing gray winter light into the room. Alfie handed her the crystal glass and closed his eyes.  Once she was sure that his breathing was slow and even and she was sure he was asleep, she knelt beside him in the firelight and kept watch.

 

The sun through the window woke him, his whole body a single throbbing pain, his head still ringing from where the bottle broke over it. And there on the floor was Abby, curled up and leaning against the sofa, her head resting on his right arm. She’d been the first person he thought of when the boys jumped him. He hadn’t been surprised that someone put a hit on him, or that he’d die before he was forty five. What he feared was that he’d leave Abby alone. She wouldn’t have anywhere to go, no one to take care of her and that’s what had terrified him. 

She turned her face in her sleep and in the stream of sunlight he saw smudges of blood across her cheek, her hair pinned up in a wild mess, tendrils stuck to her cheeks. Her white nightgown was covered in mud and blood and wet from the rags she cleaned him with. He moved his hand and pulled the pins from her hair so he could run his fingers through it. She woke and sat up on her heels, her eyes red and puffy from crying.

“What’s this about?” He said, his voice gravely, his throat dry. He brushed a thumb over her cheek. “What are you crying about?”

She smiled and pulled his hand to her mouth, kissing his bloody and bruised knuckles, the five pointed crown on his hand.

“You’re awake. Oh my god…Al—A…Mr. S!” She kissed his split lip, his swollen eye, the cut on his forehead.

“Easy girl, I’m not all fixed yet.”

He moved slow but pushed himself up to sitting, holding his ribs with each breath as he tried to stand.

“What are you doing?” She said, rushing to put her arm around him. "Lay down!"

“Get me upstairs, love. I need you to run me a bath.”


	8. The Best Medicine

The trip up the stairs was like a mountain expedition, Alfie leaning most of his weight on Abby’s slight frame, his hand sliding against the wall, leaving smudges of rust colored blood that she’d have to clean up later. With every footfall of his left leg he winced, his breath a hot hissing wind over her skin.

“Make sure its hot, Love," he said, his words clipped as his breath brought lightning bolts of pain to his bruised and broken ribs. "As hot as you can get it. That’s what soothes my aching back.”

Once they were in the bathroom she pulled a chair in from his bedroom and set him down in it, turning on the faucet, filling the room with steam and heat. He’d never felt so helpless, weak. And watching her flit around the bathroom in her blood soaked gown, her hair damp with steam, stuck to her face, he was nearly brought to tears at the thought of someone working so hard to take care of him. Never, not since he was a child. And one thing was certain; he didn’t deserve it. He’d done nothing to deserve a kind hand or sympathy, but it had to admit it felt good.

Abby’s heart pounded with anxiety as she worked to get him undressed, pulling his belt free and tugging down his trousers. She knelt in front of him to work at the laces of his boots and felt his hand stroking her hair, a comforting weight, his heavy, ring covered fingers massaging her scalp. Before standing up she pressed a quick kiss to the top of his knee, smiling to give him reassurance that she wasn't about to break down in sobs at the sight of his injuries.

“OK, Mr. S, come get in the bath and we’ll clean you up.”

It tore at her to see him stand, unsteady on his feet, in pain with every step. She was reminded of the broken, crumbling statues of Greek warriors, their pride and strength cracking at the edges, but still showing unchanged perseverance on their faces. He sunk into the water and groaned, resting his head on the edge of the bath.

“Ah yeah, that’s it Love. This will fix all ills. Come on in then,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Oh…I…I wouldn’t want to hurt you…I can…”

“Get your kit off and get in here," he said, tapping his ring loudly against the side of the tub. "Don’t worry, I ain’t fit for fucking this morning, Peach, I just want to see you. I want to thank you for taking care of me.”

She couldn’t help but smile at her boss with his bruised and battered face, his eye swollen shut, still managing to lure her out of her clothes, still managing to make her wet even when he had no intention of screwing her. So she pulled her gown over her head and pinned up her hair and climbed into the bath, sitting between his legs and leaning against his chest. He winced at her touch and she flinched, sitting up straight.

“I’m sorry sir, I’m so sorry.” She touched her fingers to the wet bandages on his broken ribs, untucking and pulling them off. She’d replace them with dry ones when they got out. “I should have been more…”

He grabbed the back of her neck and pulled her face close to his, massaging the bone at the top of her spine with his hand.

“Stop apologizing. Go back how you were, and stop talking, yeah? I just need to soak my bones.”

She nodded, brushing her lips over his before doing what he asked, leaning against his chest and pulling is arms around her waist. For a while Alfie was silent, just the occasional splash of water from his dangling hand, the sound of his slightly labored breathing, a groan or hiss of pain.

“Who did this?” She asked, trying to tamp down the anger in her voice. He only chuckled.

“Unhappy bakers I suspect, cocky little shits looking to throw over the boss. But they didn’t. They won’t." He paused before adding "And I don’t want you going about your day thinking they waltzed home whistling a tune, Abby. I only hope they have their own private nurses.”

He lied to her because it would let her relax, she would rest easy knowing it was something he could fix, not the first sign of worse things to come. Nothing would be served by telling her that.

As he suspected she loosened up a bit, adjusting her position and felt his beard brush against her shoulder, his lips on her back, her neck.

“My sweet juicy Peach,” he muttered, nearly to himself, his hands lacing into hers. “Don’t think that I don’t want to bend you over that sink today Love, I just don’t have the strength for it.”

When he said the words he felt her shiver, the goosebumps ripple down her arms. She sat up a little straighter, arching her back.

“It’s fine, Mr. S. I just want you to get better.”

She watched as he, still holding her hand, ran his fingers up and down her wet thigh, so lightly, the touch of a feather, just like his lips on her skin. He'd never been so gentle with her, tentative, teasing. He purred a low, guttural sound of approval before letting go of her left hand to touch her bottom lip with his thumb, slicking the warm water over it before pushing it into her mouth, over her tongue, holding her jaw open, his other fingers delicate on her cheek.

“You’re a filthy little girl, aren’t you Abigail?”

Their right hands moved together slowly as he pushed her thighs apart, stroking her warm, slippery core with her own fingers. She relaxed her legs, letting her knees fall open. Unable to speak, she nodded, curling her tongue around his thick, callused thumb before closing her mouth around it to suck it.

“You don’t need my cock in your cunt for you to go over, do you girl? You just need a good talking to.”

He licked the top bones of her spine with the flat of his warm tongue before kissing it again, then took his thumb from her mouth and closed his left hand around her throat. It didn’t hurt, she could breathe, but he exerted enough pressure to let her feel his strength. He knew she liked his strength. She liked to be small, frail, to feel him controlling her, the power he used to hold her down or keep her still.

Abby gasped when he pushed her own finger up inside along with his own, moving her hips to rock against their hands.

“In fact, I could just sit here and talk about fucking your peach of an ass and never lay a hand on you and you would come like a fucking storm, wouldn’t you?” He let go of her hand, but wouldn’t let her pull out her finger, covering her hand with his palm. “Go on, love, add another one. Fuck yourself silly and let me watch you, yeah? I love watching your face when you can’t hold on any longer.”

He sucked at the tendon of her throat, running the tip of his tongue up to the back of her ear, biting down on the tender lobe.

“Do it, Peach,” he whispered in her ear, squeezing her throat just a hint tighter. “I want to watch you make yourself come.”

She whined and bucked, sliding another finger in, thrusting in and out, surprised at how quickly she’d gotten so wet. The idea of him watching her, seeing her touching herself made her cheeks flush hot. Alfie leaned forward, resting his bearded chin on her shoulder as she collapsed back against him, fingering herself frantically, feeling the orgasm building, powerful and deep.

“Come on now, I can feel your heart racing,” he said, holding her leg to the side with his free hand. “Are you close? Is that cunt wrapped tight around your fingers, sucking them in?”

She nodded, her words of assurance coming out as nothing but short breaths, high pitched whines. Water splashed over the sides of the bathtub as she ground her palm against her clit. He held tight to her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath his fingertips, her back arching away from him.

“What you thinking about Peach? My tongue or my cock? You like when I suck the cream out of that pretty pink flower or you like me pounding it until it’s sore?”

She stiffened in his arms, throwing her head back against his shoulder, her mouth open, gasping for breath as the climax overtook her, draining every ounce of energy from her muscles with one last pull of her fingers. As the last waves of it spasmed through her, weak whimpers of exhaustion leaving her lips, Alfie pulled her hand up to his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said, holding tight to her wrist and sucking her hot, wet fingers clean. “The best medicine in the world, isn’t it?”

She nodded, her muscles limp and warm, her mind blank, no longer frightened or worried or sad. It was her employer’s finest skill, this…distraction he provided when her heart was heavy. The best medicine indeed. She flipped onto her stomach, leaning against him to kiss his mouth, then the bruises on his jaw, his temple, the swelling around his eye. His cock was hard but he pushed her hand away from trying to let him release.

“Nah love, don’t worry about me. It’ll go down in a minute. As soon as I try and pull myself out to standing. I think I need some more rum and some more sleep.”

She kissed him once more and pulled herself out of the bath, gathering up both of their dirty clothes into a pile. How quickly she went back to business.

“I’ll take these downstairs and burn them, they’ll never get clean. Then I’ll cut you some more bandages and bring you some rum in your bedroom, right?”

He nodded, smiling as he watched her shiny wet, pink ass saunter from the room, wondering what it would cost him to ask her to do the housekeeping in the nude.


End file.
